Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  He steadied her before doing so. She felt tears spring unbidden to her eyes.

  “God go with you!” she whispered suddenly. “I pray, God go with you.”

  “Aye, lady. And with you.” His palm cupped her face, but briefly. He mounted Thor. She felt a hand upon her shoulder. Rhiannon. They backed away from the horses, and Melisande watched as the family grouped together.

  They were splendid and terrifying. They stretched out in a formidable line that seemed to go on forever. There sat Olaf, and at his sides, his golden sons, Eric and Conar, tall and striking in their Viking helmets, their eyes glittering their Nordic blue, even at a distance. There were the others, Conan, Bryan, Bryce, and Leith. Michael and Patrick, sons-in-law, were in the line. And several of Erin"s brothers and cousins, another Eric, pure Viking, brother to Olaf.

  For a moment they were enchanting, incredible. Then the earth began to tremble, for they were moving.

  In vast, great waves, they disappeared beyond the gates of the walled city.

  Melisande remained in Dubhlain as the weeks passed, wondering when news would come.

  Messengers rode in daily. But as yet, there was no news. They negotiated with Maelmorden for Niall"s return, demanded it. Erin read each message aloud in the grianon, and then they all waited again.

  As the days went by, Melisande still didn"t feel in the least ill, she didn"t suffer any symptoms of anything different.

  Yet she had now passed by two full moons, and still there was no sign of her flow.

  Despite herself, she began to dream about having a child. And it did not seem so terrible that it might be a boy, and that it might resemble its father.

  Letters also reached her from home, and those were distressing. Ragwald wrote her of strange happenings. Riders appeared on the ridge some mornings and stared down upon the fortress. Again, again, and then again.

  “Trouble?” Erin asked her.

  Aye! she longed to cry. But she didn"t dare be honest with her mother-in-law, because she was so desperately trying to find a way to await Conar at home, rather than here.

  “Nay, nothing,” she said. “Just news of people, births, and deaths, I"m afraid.

  We lost a sheepherder, so Ragwald tells me, to a fever. But things go well, they are peaceful!”

  One week later Rhiannon informed them that she was going home, that Alfred had sent ships with trade, and she intended to return to Wessex.

  It seemed Melisande"s golden opportunity.

  “Perhaps I will come with you,” she murmured.

  “You would all leave me?” Erin asked. She was watching Melisande.

  “Should you sail with Rhiannon?” she asked.

  Melisande had the greatest difficulty lying to Erin. Her lashes fell.

  “Wait another week,” Erin suggested.

  She waited. And Rhiannon waited with her. But more dismal news came from Ragwald, frightening news. Ragwald urged her to beg Conar to come back.

  The Danes were amassing near Bruge, as well as other places. Odo had come by, he was eager to see Conar return.

  Melisande sat down that night and wrote to Conar, telling him that she understood his obligations, but that they were desperately needed at home. She implored him to come back and take her there.

  She waited again. Days passed.

  Then his curt message came back to her. He could leave soon, he was certain, but not now.

  She was to wait.

  That evening she told Rhiannon that she would sail with her. They left the next morning.

  She lied to Erin, stating that she wanted to see Rhiannon"s children, that she knew she would be safe, for Rhiannon was under Alfred"s protection, and few men dared cross the king of Wessex.

  When she reached Wessex, she knew that she had planned well. She had written to Ragwald again, telling him that Conar"s ships were detained because of the state of warfare in northern Eire.

  A sleek ship arrived in Wessex for her.

  It was not hard to convince Rhiannon that it was all right for her to go home.

  She had never let her sister-in-law know that anything was amiss, and Rhiannon was distressed to see her leave, but understood how eager she was to go home.

  A little after a month since she had set sail, she managed to come home. Yet sailing in, seeing the sky, the water, the beach, nothing gave her the feeling of contentment that should have been hers.

  Indeed, as she neared the beach, she felt sick at long last. Wretchedly sick to her stomach.

  He would be furious when he discovered what she had done. He would turn against her, despise her. Perhaps find solace in the arms of another woman, the ever willing Brenna.

  She stepped upon the shore. Half the fortress had turned out to greet her again, Philippe, Gaston, Ragwald, Marie, milkmaids, sheepherders, farmers, men-at-arms. She was welcomed by them all.

  Honored by them all.

  She had returned to lead them in her husband"s absence.

  She greeted everyone, dined with Ragwald, Philippe, and Gaston, and heard more frightening news about the number of Danes arriving on nearby shores.

  She settled a dispute that had come up between two villeins over a cow that had sickened and died. She dealt with letters to Odo and other barons. Finally her first night home grew late, and she returned to her room.

  Their room. Where they had slept together. She stretched out to sleep.

  In a way she had bested him at last. She hadn"t fought a single battle. She had taken leave of Dubhlain and then of Wessex. And she had come home.

  Her stomach continued to churn. Tears ran down her cheek.

  She suddenly felt as if she were choking on them. She jumped up and found her wash basin just in time. She was miserably, wretchedly sick.

  Her first night home. She was the countess. Taking power over her destiny within her own hands.

  She had never been in such anguish before.

  And she had never felt so alone.

  Nor had she ever ached for him so fiercely, knowing just how great his anger would be.

  And perhaps his retribution.

  Home! She had longed for it so desperately.

  She had not slept with a demon to achieve it. She had merely sold her heart and soul instead.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They had gathered a great army, but for the most part the army sat.

  Negotiations with Maelmorden stretched on endlessly, with a few minor clashes occurring between various troops.

  They had Maelmorden well outnumbered, but Maelmorden had his uncle Niall, the Ard-Ri now, and if he were to die under such circumstances, Maelmorden might well claim the title. Though the son of the Ard-Ri frequently took the title from his father, it was not necessarily an inherited title.

  A man had to prove his worth to be the Ard-Ri.

  Niall"s sons were young—they had been kept home from the fighting.

  In the Christian world it had become customary to pay danegeld, or bribe money, to send Viking invaders on their way. But though Maelmorden had called on their ancient enemies, the Danes, to do his fighting, he wasn"t after a prize of gold. He wanted the lesser kings to accept his authority, to bow down before him.

  Long weeks into the campaign Conar stood once more with Leith, Eric, his father, and his other brothers on a field, with Maelmorden and his berserkers standing before him. Again Olaf set before him the demand that Niall be returned. He would never accept Maelmorden, nor his son after him. The king of Connaught cried out behind Olaf, and the other kings raised their voices.

  Again Maelmorden went into a fury, swearing that Niall had little time left before his untimely demise.

  In the end they all left the field. Tempers flared, skirmishes broke out. But there was no real fighting, and they returned to their encampments.

  Conar slept that night right beneath the open sky. Watching the stars made him think of Ragwald, and then he thought of Melisande, though she was seldom out of his mind. He knew damned well that their position was
precarious, and everyone knew that the Danes were amassing along the Frankish and Frisian coasts.

  He wondered if there might have been some better way to answer her letter, then realized that there had not been.

  He missed her incredibly. For all that so frequently rose between them, he missed her with an aching sense of loss that stayed with him night and day.

  Night was worse, of course, because when he closed his eyes, the endless fields of men seemed to disappear, and he could hear her whispers again, see her as she walked to him across the room, naked. He could almost reach out and touch her.

  In the long emptiness of the nights, when he reached over, his hands touched dirt where his wife might have lain.

  There were women in the camp, but no matter how hotly his body burned, he had been startled to discover that he had no desire for simple appeasement; the little witch who had stolen his senses had also stolen his soul. He loved her. It was a strange emotion, not always so sweet, for it brought with it torture. He dreamed of her, he craved her, he thought of her by endless night and endless day.

  Usually his dreams were sweet, but this night he found himself racing through the darkness, knowing he had lost her. He could hear the fierce pounding of his heart. His breathing was ragged and loud, his muscles ached and burned. He called her name and ran more quickly, and he heard her cry out in return, but he could not see her.

  There were waves of the enemy before him.

  He stopped and suddenly became part of an ancient tree that stood beside him. As the tree he could move through his enemies. He sought her again, searching high and low. He heard her voice.

  They had buried her. She was deep in the earth. Her voice cried out to him softly now. Melisande … there were tears in it, she wanted to come home to him.

  He was so close to reaching her. He heard her voice. Heard it again. He would reach her, no matter how the enemy surrounded him.

  He awoke with a start, banging his head on a tree limb. Thor was at his side, gazing down upon him. He groaned and sat up, cradling his head. Nearby, his brother Leith stirred, having chosen to sleep under the stars as well, his saddle pack his pillow. Eric lay just beyond.

  “Conar!”

  He turned. Leith, grown into a serious man, no longer a boy who would tease a brother by seizing a play sword, was studying him with a puzzled frown.

  “What is it? Are you all right?”

  Conar nodded, studying his brother in return. “Why?”

  “You"ve been tossing and turning, moaning in your sleep.” He didn"t flush easily, but he felt a seeping of color rise to his face. Damn her! His wretched dreams about her were even visible ones.

  He hesitated a moment, standing, listening to his body creak as he stretched out the night"s stiffness. Leith and Eric both rose as well, still watching him.

  Eric, more familiar with his life, asked him, “Are you worried about the situation at home?”

  “I am always worried about the situation at home,” he agreed softly. He shrugged and grinned. “And when I am there, I worry about the situation here.” He paused a moment. “I had an interesting dream. That might stand us well.”

  “What?” Leith demanded.

  “We keep meeting them, army to army. What if we were to find out exactly where Niall was … and simply release him.”

  “How?”

  “One man slips in. One man, invisible when the enemy is looking for many.”

  “Perhaps …” Leith said, looking at Eric.

  They summoned their brothers and others in the family circle, then went to Olaf. Yet even before they spoke, they had sent spies out to the fringes of the enemy groups to learn where Niall was being kept.

  “One man definitely risks his life. Perhaps capture, perhaps torture. Perhaps such a thing will cast us into further negotiations—” Olaf began.

  “Father! How much longer can this go on!” Conar protested.

  Olaf looked about. “Leith?”

  “I believe my brother has a sound idea. Father, they keep us here endlessly, baiting us. We cannot rush them, fight them as we should, for if we were to slay Maelmorden, the Danes would slay Niall in retribution!”

  “Who would go?” Olaf demanded.

  “I would,” Conar said, dismayed by the chill that settled over him. “My dream, my thought. I must go.”

  “How?”

  “Monastic robes,” he said.

  “My brother the monk!” Eric murmured, and there was a snort of laughter that broke some of the tension among them.

  “Ah, but his habits have changed greatly as of late, haven"t you noticed?” Leith murmured. “What magic could have done this?”

  “I believe she is tall, raven-haired—”

  “And extremely willful and disobedient,” he replied, eyeing them one by one. “If we may get back to this?”

  “Ah, of course. Back to business,” Leith stated.

  “Father, I"d need to have secrecy to a certain point, then I"d need the whole of the army. I could get so far alone, then I would need help.”

  “Niall is probably well guarded.”

  “At the outer defenses. Within, I imagine he is watched by one or two men at a time. Yet his disappearance would soon be discovered, and that"s when the army would be so dearly needed.”

  “What if Niall is injured, crippled?”

  “It"s a chance I am willing to take, Father.”

  “We"ll wait,” Olaf said. “We"ll wait until our people return and tell us what they know. Conar, stay a moment. I would have a word with you.” The others departed, and Conar was left alone with his father in the swiftly built wooden long house where they centered their command. Olaf strode some distance from him, then turned.

  “Have you heard from your wife?”

  A cold wave, like a wall of ice, seemed to fall over him. “No, I have not,” he said. “Not of late. She wrote when she had received a message from Ragwald about the number of Danes arriving, and I answered her. I have not heard from her again. What is it?”

  “Nothing, perhaps. Erin has written that Melisande sailed with Rhiannon for Wessex, that is all. I had thought she might have written for your permission.” His temper soared, and his anger was doubled by fear. His mouth went dry.

  “You"re free to return home, Conar. Someone else can carry out this plan.

  If—”

  “No, Father. I will carry out the plan. Today. Then I will be free to leave.” After a moment Olaf nodded. “Perhaps you are right. If you carry out this plan today, then we are all free.”

  Their spies returned shortly. Niall was being kept in Maelmorden"s house, just behind the lines they had set for themselves. There were numerous people coming and going, indeed, members of the clergy, merchants, servants. The line of defense around the manor was all that protected it.

  Niall and Eric were Conar"s escorts to the outer defenses. He left Thor in their care and knew that they would be waiting for him, that they would not fail him. Then, in his monk"s cape and cowl, he walked toward the enemy line.

  They stretched out before him. Irishmen, Danes. Some in loose trousers, some in knee-high pants, their hairy legs bared. Many wore furs against the chill, all carried their battle-axes.

  He was approached at last by a one-eyed man in a massive coat of bearskin.

  “What do you do here?”

  “I"ve come to tend to the soul of one you keep behind this line.”

  “Niall?”

  “Indeed. As you would seek to reach the halls of Valhalla, milord Niall seeks a different heaven, and might need guidance at this time.” The man grunted and told him to wait. In a while he was back, saying that Conar could go through. Maelmorden hadn"t given a damn about a black-cowled friar entering his domain.

  Conar swiftly walked the distance from the lines to the manor which stood far back from them. Chickens and pigs blocked his way, even here, at a king"s house. It was the least well kept Conar had seen. His father"s Dubhlain was great with its walls, and his
own fortress …

  This manor was little more than wood and thatch, with strange additions built of wattle and daub.

  He passed through the yard unmolested. A wide-eyed child greeted him.

  The doorway was low. There were but two men before it. They ignored him, parting to let him enter, then continued with their conversation.

  He ducked beneath the low frame of the doorway and entered the main room of the manor. There was a peat fire burning, and a veil of smoke filled the place, stinging his eyes. The floor was raw earth and rushes. Dirty, half-clad children scrambled about.

  At a table in the center of the room Maelmorden sat, pointing out places on a rough map to the men who stood at his rear. He paused, looking up, when Conar entered the room.

  Maelmorden was a tall, husky man, well built, with a wild mane of reddish brown hair and dark eyes. Conar had despised him from the moment he had first seen him—there was a flaw in his eyes, they were small, set too close together. They glinted quickly with greed.

  Maelmorden looked up at Conar and grinned broadly. “You"re not one of mine, Brother, nor do ye have the look of a man of the cloth. But I hear you"ve come to tend to the Ard-Ri, and I"d not be denying any man his right to absolution.”

  Conar bowed. “No last rites, Maelmorden. I"m a monk, not a priest. I"ve come only to give him company, spiritual guidance in these great days of travail.”

  “He needs a priest,” Maelmorden said, and the men behind him burst into laughter.

  Conar wondered if he hadn"t come just in time, if they weren"t planning his uncle"s murder even now.

  “If he desires one now, I will send a man in my stead,” Conar assured him.

  Apparently Maelmorden had given the matter enough time. He waved a hand in the air and beckoned to a thin, dark-haired woman who hovered in a corner of the room.

  “Bring him to our—guest,” Maelmorden commanded.

  He was taken down a long, dank hallway. A huge Viking sat on the ground before a heavy wooden doorway.